


in the blackest of rooms

by retts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Fluff, Happy evil Winchesters, M/M, Serial Killers, non-linear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:48:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5900677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retts/pseuds/retts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, Dean had whispered eagerly into his Mom's belly: Baby brother, come out and play, I'm waiting!</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the blackest of rooms

**Author's Note:**

> this is what happens when i write at 3AM please don't mind the crazy
> 
> i'm sorry
> 
> also unbeta'd

 

There's a lack in his soul, Dean knows. It's the place where other people should be, the place where they glow warm and sweet, the place where they thread together and form -- what's the word the school counsellors and that one shrink his Dad brought him to said that he should have -- oh, yeah, connections.

A connection between him and whoever, who the fuck cares, as long as it's not Sam. Or not _only_ Sam. Dean can't wrap his head around the idea of anyone being more than his brother. Dean doesn't even have the proper words to describe how much he loves Sam, and he's the one helping Sam go through the dictionary to find long, funny words just to make the epic nerd who calls himself Dean's brother laugh and sigh.

Sam is ineffable. Sam is paradisiacal. Sam lives in that empty space in Dean's soul where others should leave their fingerprints and Dean is happy to leave him there.

It isn't good for you and your brother to be so close, Dean, the shrink says from across the sofa. You'll only be hurting Sam in the long run and you don't want that, do you?

And Dean remembers when Sam woke him up in the middle of the night and whispered, Dean, there's a bad man in school. His baby brother had clutched at Dean's hand and stared with wide, dark eyes. He touches me sometimes.

And Dean had waited in the dark, twelve years old and already so good with a knife (thanks, Dad) and made sure the bad man never touched his brother again. Then, with Sam dimpling, had showed Sam the blood on his wrists and promised him that he was safe. Then, Sam had licked the blood.

Sorry, Dean says, at twelve, at seventeen, at twenty-five, at forty, at whichever point in his life that someone will ask and he will always answer, but Sam's my little brother. Other people will have to wait in line.

 

 

(That shrink barely gets away with her scribbling, always scribbling, hand intact after saying that Dean is hurting Sam.

Ha, as if.)

 

 

This is a good word, Sam whispers excitedly as he tips Merriam-Webster to the side so Dean can read.

Awry. It feels good in Dean's mouth. It feels even better in Sammy's.

 

 

Dean isn't good. There's a burning, a burning, a burning in him. All of his gentleness belongs to Sam, and his rage is split between everything else. It feels like he's living two lives.

One, Sam.

The other, blood.

There isn't a time when Dean thinks he should leave his brother before it's too late. It's Sam who whispered first, asked first, and wanted ever since. Dean is only too happy to oblige. His two lives feed each other.

And Sam. His beautiful, radiant, fucked up brother. Sam sleeps tucked up in the curve of Dean's body even after he's full grown, where he claims he is safe from the crawly things in his nightmares. In his waking hours. He screams, sometimes, no matter how many they kill.

If Dean is built all wrong, then Sam's mind is cracked in all the right places.

Doesn't matter. Sam and blood, nothing else.

 

 

In the blackest of rooms, Dean splays Sam open for him. Sam acquiesces, trembling and so fucking sweet. Dad is gone but Dean still shushes him. Quiet, Sammy, quiet, he murmurs as his hands fumble in his hunger. Sam's eyes shine, all the light gathered there but still reflecting so dark.

 

 

Dad is.

Well, the most Dean can say is that he's mostly gone. Even in the same room, Dad is distant, always with one foot in the past. (It makes him blind.) He teaches Dean how to survive, how to find and fight monsters. As for Sam, Dad entrusts most of his education to Dean, like he left diapers and milk bottles and baby food to Dean.

It's the best and worst thing he's ever done.

Dean takes his responsibility seriously. He teaches Sam the same things Dad does, only softer, kinder, and Sam blossoms. He wields a knife and shoots a gun nearly as good as Dean, and he fights ferociously. He grows long and lissome, face sweeter than strawberries. Dean can't help but touch the mole on his cheek, near his mouth, on the back of one shoulder. He's stripped Sam from his clothes more times than he can count, from the cradle to his arms. Sam holds his arms up every time.

There is nothing of Dad in Sam, and only a little bit of Dean looks out from his eyes.

Sam is Sam, through and through.

Sam, ebullient on their first hunt together, all glittering eyes and panting breaths and adolescent eagerness as Dean catches their prey.

Then, they play in the dark.

 

 

Dean, Sam pleads.

What, baby brother? Dean asks.

You --

 

 

Like this, Sammy.

Sam watches intently as Dean opens up the body from throat to belly. Blood wells and drips.

That's messy, Sam grouses, shuffling his trainers away.

Dean grins. You wanted to practice, right? Here, your turn. Be careful, okay, it's sharp.

Sam touches the soft fur on the body and follows what Dean just did. He's even sloppier about it but Dean doesn't care. He drops kisses on his baby brother's face and ruffles his hair, he's so proud.

Sam tips his face up to him, squirming to please. Did I do okay?

 

 

Dean rubs at his dick as he watches Sam drink from the demon.

Good? he asks softly, a little enviously. That mouth should only be on him.

The _best._

God, Sammy.

Dean, want it to be yours next, your blood. _Please_.

Sammy, Sammy, Sam --

What the fuck are you two doing? Dad roars as he kicks the door open. Horror floods his face at what he sees and the gun wavers. What have you boys done?

Dean goes a little crazy with the gun aimed at Sam. Sam waves a hand and Dad falls into a heap on the floor, still whispering, what have you done? what have you done?

Sam hops on one foot and the other, swinging knife catching the light from outside the window. He looks breathlessly at Dean, nothing but pupils. Dean leans up and slides his tongue inside Sam's mouth. Sam and blood.

Go on, go on, Dean permits fondly. Show me how good you've become.

 

 

The monsters wear human faces or is it the other way around? Dean grins at his reflection, and the handsome man grins back. His brother knocks impatiently on the door. We'll be late! Sam shouts. 

Once upon a time, Dean had whispered eagerly into his Mom's belly: Baby brother, come out and play, I'm waiting!

 

 

The Impala drives down the empty highway. Dean has one hand hanging out of the open window. Sam calls him reckless. Dean says he's boring.

After a while, Sam opens his book: old, worn, blood-stained.

Wat'cha reading, Sammy? Oh man, not that fucking dictionary again.

Dean, you are beguiling, dangerous, wild, beauteous, illimitable, bloodthirsty --

Oh my God, shut the fuck up!

Sam laughs, and blows him a kiss.

They don't hear the frantic thumping coming from the trunk.

 

 

Dean thinks the most significant word in any language is Sam.

And mine.

  


**Author's Note:**

> kudos are food for the soul


End file.
